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Cafe Mestizo Keeps Poetry Open Mic Tradition Alive

CJ Laity Has A New Book

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'Point Nemo' by CJ Laity is a sharp and funny satire of the insanity that passes for contemporary
American political and media sensibility in all of its collapsing imperial goodness. A great beach read,
but don't bother sharing with a tea bagger--they won't get it.

--Larry Winfield, author of Banjo Strings

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Joseph Engel is convicted of treason and strapped to a gurney in the Terre Haute federal death chamber. When the warden asks him if he has any last words, Joe begins talking non-stop, telling the strange tale of how he ended up there, challenging the warden to quote him a law that puts a time limit on a prisoner's final statement. What happens when a populated island called the Sovereign Nation of Aurora is discovered at Point Nemo, the point in the ocean farthest away from any land? What happens when the king of the island, a dreadlocked man named Harmon, hacks into the entire American communications infrastructure with a video stream offering a trade proposal? What happens when an America controlled by an insane government plots to invade the island and turn it into a military base? What happens when a senator's cook named Joe unwittingly finds himself the American Ambassador to the island? Joe is going to tell you what happens, as he stalls his execution as long as possible. Can Joe talk his way out of the death chamber? Here's a sneak peek at my new political satire Point Nemo followed by an opportunity to get a copy of it.

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*click to order a book*

I
* KING HARMON *
18:00 in the death chamber.
On a rainy Saturday, July first, the curtain was pulled away and I could see the shapes of the witnesses behind the tinted window of the asparagus colored death chamber in Terre Haute. I reclined on a black gurney, strapped in, covered to my neck by a light gray sheet under which a heart monitor was connected to my chest, the IV waiting to carry the deadly three-drug combination into my bloodstream inserted into my leg. Warden Harvey Pickett stood at attention at my side facing the window and U.S. Marshal Andrew Freeman stood near a bright red phone that was on a metal tray next to a door. There was a white analog clock on the wall in front of me and a closed-circuit video camera watching me from the ceiling.

“Do you have any last words,” the warden hailed without facing me.

“I certainly do,” I said, my eyes desperately scanning the room. “I wish to make a final statement. First, I would like to say that if the Chinese had granted me asylum six and a half years ago, I wouldn’t be in the fix I’m in. I was picked up by a Ching Chiang class patrol ship, you know, after the helicopter that took me off the island crashed in the South Pacific. I was held in a brig with a Chinese prisoner who had brown birthmarks on his cheeks and who had an ear bigger than the other. He lay on a cot, his hands chained to the wall, and I sat on another cot across from him, my body free of restraints. I asked him if he knew what had started the international crisis and he merely smiled a mouthful of gray teeth at me. Amazed that he had been kept so ignorant, I began to tell him how it all began.

“‘The Sovereign Nation of Aurora sat in the middle of the South Pacific Ocean for weeks,’ I told him, ‘unnoticed by the other seven billion people of the world, while Murray Goldberger, the student from the University of Pennsylvania who discovered the island while studying cloud patterns, wrote a career making article that he easily got published in a leading scientific journal. That article was then republished in National Geographic, but still, nobody paid it any mind. It wasn’t until bold headlines at the supermarket checkout lines shouted “Prehistoric Island Surfaces” and “Atlantis Appears In South Pacific!” that I paid attention, and even then it was just for a laugh while waiting for the new kid to figure out how to properly scan a barcode. Of course, I assumed, the headlines were a joke. The buzz eventually moved from the tabloids to National Public Radio talk shows that featured experts debating the existence of “Point Nemo Island.” The loud and obnoxious cable news anchors weighed in next. They had photos taken by NASA satellites that seemed to prove that there was indeed an up until that point undiscovered island somewhere near the oceanic pole of inaccessibility, previously considered to be the point in the ocean farthest away from any land.’

“The Chinese prisoner’s glassy eyes blankly stared at me.

“‘Things in the world started to get hairy,’ I continued, ‘when Robert Rush, host of the cable show Oh Really! theorized that the mysterious Point Nemo land mass may not be an island at all, but maybe it was some type of giant warship, because its coordinates radically changed with each satellite photo taken of it. When Robert Rush’s touch of fear was added to the equation, everyone perked up and attached the letters WTF to a link on their Facebook pages.

“‘Scientists attempted to calm the American people. They enlarged a satellite image and showed us a forest and a massive mountaintop peeking up through the fog. They argued that the land mass could not have been manmade because it was about the size of Tokyo. They also debated Mr. Goldberger’s theory that it recently formed by means of a volcanic eruption, arguing that there were all sorts of foliage growing on the island and certain shadows in the photos, they said, suggested that wildlife existed there. What they couldn’t explain was why the island seemed to shift in location, and so far, despite the photos of bits and pieces of it appearing through the fog, nobody had actually set foot on it. So the wild theories persisted.’”

Warden Pickett grunted and his eyes rolled briefly toward me.

“‘The fog closed in around the land mass one day and no one could find it anymore, so stories ran about the elaborate hoax that was Point Nemo Island, and poor Murray Goldberger was about to kiss his fame goodbye; until, three weeks later, the fog dissipated completely and there it was, at a new set of coordinates, shaped like a 40 mile long banjo, with a thirty mile peninsula leading into a pyramid-shaped mountain of lush vegetation circled by sand. There wasn’t a newspaper in the states that didn’t have an image of the land mass taken from outer space on its front page,’ I told the Chinese prisoner, pretending to hold a newspaper in front of my face.

“‘The cable news anchors shouted at each other about whether the island should be preserved or turned into a military base. America became divided on this point and hysteria about the subject became contagious.’ The Chinese prisoner coughed. ‘People insulted each other on internet comment boards, calling each other “fascist right wing neocons” and “lefty liberal moonbats.” Somebody in Holly Pond, Alabama plucked someone’s eye out with a spoon in a diner as the two of them argued about the island and the incident made national headlines. The hysteria was isolated though, as no other country besides America had yet been able to confirm the existence of the island. Foreign news sources were giving it little attention, some even shrugging it off as yet another invention of the American government to justify a military invasion of some sort.

“‘President Nolin,’ I said, ‘you know, President Nolin?’ The Chinese prisoner smiled and shrugged his shoulders. ‘She addressed the nation during a live broadcast to assure us that an expedition of our top intellectuals led by the United States Military would soon be under way and that by the end of the week, America will have had set foot on Point Nemo Island. “There’s no telling’ what we’ll find but I’m bettin’ on a bunch of trees and not much else,” Nolin said. “This thing must-a been there all along. It seems impossible that with all our technoligy nobody noticed it before but that's just what musta happened. It’s a ginormous ocean you know.” President Nolin then went on for some time about how she planned to hunt down and kill terrorists wherever they hid and then she said a prayer and her little show was over.’”

The warden shifted his weight and grumbled, “If you’re holding out for a last minute stay, you should know that the judge who signed your death warrant has passed, so you’re only stalling the inevitable.”

“Warden,” I said, “what state was I convicted in?”

“You were convicted in Utah,” the warden answered with a slight sneer.

“Isn’t it true that, even though we’re in Indiana, pursuant to eighteen United States Code three five nine six, the method of execution to be used on federal prisoners is that of the state in which the conviction took place?”

“That is the law,” the warden barked.

“And isn’t it true that the ‘method of execution’ applies not only to the means, lethal injection, but to the method in which that means is carried out?”

“We have gone through painstaking efforts to proceed under the laws of Utah,” the warden assured me.

“Isn't it common practice in Utah to allow a capital offender the chance to say his peace before his execution?”

“It is.”

“What part of Utah’s code of criminal procedure puts a time limit on a prisoner’s last words?”

“What’s the law on that?” the warden huffed.

“I’m not sure,” said the marshal.

“Until you quote the law that stops me, I plan to proceed.

“‘Something extraordinary happened next,’ I told the Chinese prisoner,” I said as the warden turned and gawked at me. “‘Immediately following President Nolin’s speech, every television transmission and every internet connection in America was taken over by a broadcast of a speech from a happy looking brown man with dreadlocks, big white teeth and bloodshot eyes. He sat on a park bench over a bed of sand in front of a wall of multicolored rock, wearing a wrinkled and weathered shirt with palm trees printed on it. He blinked a lot and flung his locks out of his eyes with the back of his hand as he spoke. His speech appeared on every laptop in every internet café, on the big screen in Times Square, on fifty-seven different televisions at the local electronics store, even for those with digital converter boxes and rabbit ear antennas. His speech trumped all radio broadcasts and if you were on your cell phone during those few minutes, he spoke into your ear.’

“The Chinese prisoner seemed to be dozing off so I spoke up. ‘“People of America,” the happy man said, shaking his head and waving at us. “Please let me introduce myself. I am King Harmon of the Sovereign Nation of Aurora. For many centuries, the Nation of Aurora has existed in secrecy, independent of the rest of the world, because ours is a land of abundance and to be honest about it,” he winked an eye and a gold tooth glimmered from somewhere deep in his mouth, “there hasn’t been much you could offer us. We’ve always been a happy and peaceful nation without a care. Sadly, the time has come that our resources have run low, so we can no longer remain invisible to the world. So here we are, America,” he announced with formality, “self-proclaimed land of plenty, we make ourselves known to you in order to peacefully trade with you.” King Harmon flipped his hair out of his eyes and inhaled and exhaled with a firm nod of his head. “You will find that our needs are small compared to the vast resources we can offer in return.”

“‘A slender, dark skinned woman with braided hair briefly entered the frame to wipe some sand off of the king’s cheek with a little brush. One of her breasts plopped out of her kimono and it dangled there for a second before she disappeared into the sideline. King Harmon cleared his throat loudly.

“‘“American people,” he proclaimed, “we show ourselves in peace, and we anticipate the arrival of the expedition that your, uh, president talks about. Please however,” he said with a shrug and a grimace, squinting his eyes as if reading a cue card, “I am obligated to inform you that approaching Aurora without permission is impossible. No foreign vessels are allowed access to the shores of Aurora. We ask that your expedition rendezvous with the Royal Auroran Forces, where we will graciously pick up your council of representatives for, shall we say, a preliminary diplomatic meeting of the minds. If you’re down with that, please announce your intentions on any source of communication. We have access to it all.”

“‘King Harmon cleared his throat again and he looked straight into the eyes of each and every American. “We look forward to meeting and negotiating with the American people. Thank you and we now, how do you say it, resume you to your regularly scheduled programming.”'"

“Are you finished?” the warden pressed.

I ignored the warden and continued talking. “‘That evening’s news was dominated by the FCC promising to track down whoever was responsible for hacking into America’s communication infrastructure,’ I said as the Chinese prisoner yawned. ‘Diplomats and scientists assured us there was no populated island in the Pacific pole of inaccessibility, that the broadcast was a hoax. Raving talking heads speculated that since the broadcast only appeared within the United States, that it was the work of a foreign terrorist entity. Images of Osama bin Laden carrying a machinegun were aired while the talking heads talked, even when they weren’t talking about Osama bin Laden.

“‘On the other hand,’ I said, reaching over and tapping the Chinese prisoner’s knee, ‘the footage of King Harmon went viral on YouTube. Someone doctored the pitch of King Harmon’s voice to make his words sound as if they were sung to the theme to Gilligan’s Island: “People of America, introduce myself. King Harmon of Aurora. For centuries Aurora has exi-isted. In seee-eee-crecy.” The video received over one million views during its first day. Within a few more days posters and stickers of a likeness of King Harmon that resembled in style the work of Andy Warhol appeared on light poles and on abandoned buildings. By the end of the week, a riverboat casino in Illinois launched an advertising campaign: “Come and see the Aurora that really exists!”

“‘Some weeks later, as the buzz was dying down, President Nolin decided it would be wise to send Damodar Bhatnagar, her Chief Science Advisor, to CNM to be interviewed about why Point Nemo Island could not be located by anything other than a satellite. Damodar’s face was like an infant child, bloated with a too tight shirt collar, with bushy brows over deeply set eyes that seemed not to really look at anything.

“‘“We aren’t dealing with anything very mysterious here,” Damodar assured the anchorwoman who wore thick makeup and long, stiff hair. “The weather in that part of the world is atrocious. And the discrepancies in the island’s actual location are caused by magnetic fluctuations caused by solar flares playing havoc with our satellites. Once these conditions rectify themselves, which they naturally will, America will be setting foot on Point Nemo and we will proudly plant our flag there.”

“‘The anchorwoman pursed her lips and held her hand up to her ear, listening to a device that was in it. “Am I hearing this correctly?” she asked. “Do we actually have King Harmon live on video?”

“‘“What is this?” Damodar protested as he found himself on a split screen to the left of King Harmon, who was wearing a spectacular tie die shirt and jewel studded sunglasses, standing in front of a line of palms trees that flapped with a breeze.

“‘“I beg to differ,” King Harmon protested. “The weather here is quite lovely as always, as you can see,” and King Harmon’s camera strayed for a moment to show two children, a boy and a girl, who were completely naked, happily throwing stones into the foamy ocean waves with a beautiful blue sky beyond them.’”

“I’m really not sure what the time limit is in Utah,” the marshal quacked.

“Could you please find out?” the warden yapped.

Marshal Freeman picked up the red telephone receiver and he whispered into it.

“‘The broadcast swung back to King Harmon,’ I told the Chinese prisoner, swinging my arms at him as the patrol ship rocked. “As for our location,” and the king made a silly face and pointed downward at a caption that read: “Forty-eight degrees, fifty-two minutes, thirty-two seconds south; one hundred twenty-three degrees, twenty-three minutes, thirty-three seconds west.”

"'“Those are the coordinates, dude. Get a map,” the king laughed, “and draw a line from Ducie Island to Easter Island to Maher Island and back to Ducie and then plant a dot at the center of that triangle and that’s where the Royal Auroran Forces will meet you.”'"

“Hold on a second,” the marshal said with his hand over the receiver.

“‘“Hold on one second!” Damodar butted in, but King Harmon would have none of it,’” I said loudly over the marshal. “‘The king raised his voice as he continued!

“‘“Simply let us know when you intend to rendezvous with us and we’ll pick up your council for a preliminary meeting of the minds.”

“‘“Sir,” Damodar shouted back, “are you aware of the trouble you’re in?”

“‘“Mr. Bhatnagar,” King Harmon calmly said. “I am King Harmon of the Sovereign Nation of Aurora. I merely wish to discuss the possibility of a trade agreement. What possible trouble could come out of that?”

“‘“Sir, you are a phony and a fake!” Damodar raged as he flustered about. “You are an opportunist, perhaps a very talented hacker but nothing more. You’ll find yourself behind bars soon enough!”

“‘“Calm down, man,” the king said, clenching his teeth, his flat nostrils vibrating. He let out a long sigh. “Sheesh. Okay. I get it.”'"

“Do we have to stand here and listen to this?” the warden complained.

“‘“I’m not going to participate in this!”’” Damodar cried.

“They’re going to get back to us,” the marshal urged, slamming the phone down with a "Bangbing!"

“‘“To your eyes, we weren’t here yesterday, but now we’re here today. It all must seem like magic. How can that be, you want to know.” While the king spoke, behind him a topless, dark skinned woman in a dazzling gold head wrap, wearing a skirt made out of strings of beads, picked fruit from a small tree, putting them into a bowl that she held snugly under her arm.

“‘“Oh for heaven’s sake!” Damodar cried,’ I said to the Chinese prisoner,” I told the witnesses behind the tinted window, jinxing the warden.

“‘“I can’t give you all the answers, lickety split, just like that, man. At least have the courtesy to meet me face to face. I’ll tell you what, come to the coordinates and then send out one of those drones that I keep hearing about,” King Harmon proposed with inspiration. “I’ll let it enter our airspace,” and he flew his right hand over his left hand making propeller sounds with his lips, “to perform one single flyover—”

“‘“Are you on drugs?!”

“The Chinese prisoner jolted as if he thought I was about to strike him.

“‘“—during which you can snap as many photos as you like to prove to yourselves that we are indeed a nation of peaceful people. And then,” the king nodded his head, his locks swinging, “get back to us about when we can meet to discuss trade negotiations. Peace brothers.” King Harmon stuck up his hand and gave the peace sign, but I swear I saw his eyes express a bit of disgust behind his sunglasses, before his side of the screen went blank.

“‘The ticker tape at the bottom of the screen reported “King Harmon Invites U.S. Drone To Fly Over Point Nemo.”

“‘“Will the U.S. Government accept the offer?” the anchorwoman enquired.

“‘“This was an ambush,” Damodar objected.

“‘“Mr. Bhatnagar, will the United States be sending a drone to inspect Point Nemo Island?”

“‘“That’s not up to me. But I will say this person you are dealing with is undoubtedly a cyber terrorist and the United States of America does not negotiate with terrorists. Judging by that broadcast, that you should be ashamed to have aired, we should all be disturbed by the images of those nude children. I’m very, very concerned for their safety. It’s our obligation as Americans to protect those children from this madman.”

“‘A few days later,’ I said, winking at the Chinese prisoner, ‘a slender white drone was launched from a navy vessel toward the coordinates. As it flew away into the horizon, it undoubtedly faded into a sudden fog beyond which were waves of red and green light. The navy lost track of the drone and I imagine there was a lot of frantic manipulation of instruments and panicky voices shouting, until the drone reappeared and landed safely upon the vessel without a hitch.

“‘The photos taken by the drone were promptly leaked. They showed small villages made up of huts and tents, with some frame houses and stone structures as well, unpaved roads occupied by ox drawn carriages ridden by men and boys in triangular straw hats, as well as a few rectangular, rusty sedans and flatbed trucks of no known make or model. The photos also showed farm after farm with vast, healthy crops growing. Some photos showed populations of barely dressed people performing activities of work and play. One photo showed women washing fabric in a creek, and another, a man waist deep in water casting a fishing pole into the ocean. Some of the people appeared to be waving up at the drone with huge smiles on their faces.

“‘Most of the photos were taken over the five mile wide rolling jungle that stretched thirty miles from south to north. At the northernmost part of that peninsula, the land rose until it hit a gigantic four sided mountain circled by white beaches, piers and various boats.

“‘The photos that were taken of the mountain itself were nothing short of breathtaking. Magnificent waterfalls sparkled among the thick forest of it and winding roads and trails scarred all sides of it. The photos suggested that the mountain communities revolved around individual tasks. In one photo dozens of people gathered around a tremendous psychedelic rug woven out of a long machine made out of wood. Another village seemed devoted to maintaining a giant contraption of tubes and flasks with fires of various sizes underneath it and stacks of wood barrels near the still. Yet another photo showed a valley that boasted an elaborate stage with colorfully dressed people dancing and leaping into the air on it, while a crowd of others gathered on a lawn in front of it to watch.’”

“You could see all of that from a photo,” murmured the warden.

“Actually, when you looked at the photos on the internet, you could zoom in even closer to see all sorts of wildlife—monkeys and lions and foxes among them—in the forest, yes, but mingling about the people as well, who seemed to pay them no mind. You could see flocks of birds flying over the trees and schools of fish in crystal clear ponds. You could zoom in to see bananas and mangos and coconuts growing in the trees.

“‘Toward the top of the mountain,’ I continued with the Chinese prisoner, ‘some igloos could be spotted. The people at the farthest reaches of the mountain were of a lighter complexion and were fully dressed, most wearing coats, bushy hats and gloves. One photo showed about thirty of these fully dressed individuals waiting in a single file line to enter a cave. And at the very top of the mountain, everything disappeared into a barren, rocky peak that seemed to be sprinkled with glitter.

“‘To anyone in America with a pulse, the island was now called Aurora.

“‘But that didn’t stop certain people from yakking.

“‘“I think what we’re dealing with is some type of cult,” one expert professed. “Perhaps this lunatic who calls himself a king is a tax-evading millionaire who’s running a slave trading ring.”

“‘“Quite clearly Point Nemo is not occupied by a technologically advanced people,” another expert testified. “To assume that these natives in their loincloths with their campfires hacked into the entire communication infrastructure of the United States of America is pure folly. What we’re dealing with is a foreign entity, using this discovery as a negotiating tool. Perhaps Iran and North Korea are behind this!”

“‘“This is the real world,” yet another expert insisted. “An island does not move from point to point and it does not disappear and reappear. This isn’t an episode of LOST. If we look beyond the smoke and mirrors the bottom line remains: something is out there. If we increase the amount of vessels in the expedition and use our Air Force to scour the area, we’ll eventually run into this thing. Just get it done already!”

“‘The Sovereign Nation of Aurora was not recognized by the United States of America, which continued to call it Point Nemo. A dozen ships were sent out to find it, but each no doubt found itself wandering around, lost in the wafts and swirls of colorful lights as the island’s coordinates kept changing, and the Air Force no doubt flew around in circles looking down at nothing but glowing white fog. For months the hunt was on, until the New Madrid fault line slipped, giving Chicago one hell of a jolt.’”

“I remember that!” a muffled voice shouted from behind the tinted window.

“‘Then came Bondo Ongimba, President of Gabon, standing on the shore with a big smile on his face as he shook King Harmon’s hand. America turned red,’ I said, giving the Chinese prisoner another slap on the knee, ‘not from partisanship but from embarrassment, when a small African state of rainforests set foot on the mysterious island before it could. What I hear was, CIA operatives in Gabon found out a deal had been struck between the Gabonese and the Aurorans. Aurora would be allowed to retrieve one hundred tons of aluminum ore in exchange for some type of undisclosed technology. As preposterous as it sounded, the powers that be nearly had a collective stroke, and the match was thrown into the gasoline when other nations around the globe began thawing to the idea of Aurora’s existence.’

“I reached forward to tap the Chinese prisoner’s knee and he kicked his foot at me, so I sat back and continued.

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Dear Reader,

I hope you have enjoyed reading the first 4000 words of my 62,000 word fiction novel, Point Nemo. Now you are hooked and you have to read the rest, right? I hope so. I have to warn you, though, the story gets pretty intense from here on.

I'm currently offering a limited number of self-published "collector's" editions to those who are interested, while I search for a permanent publisher for the story. The collector's editions will be professionally printed on demand in the form of 160 page, 8.5 x 5.5 books with glossy covers. They will most certainly be rarities after the manuscript finds its permanent publishing house.

Order Point Nemo: $12 free shipping thru PayPay ** $12 +shipping thru CreateSpace
Also soon available through Amazon.com . . .

After you read the book, feel free contact me to let me know what you think, because I will be collecting blurbs to help promote the book to publishers. Also, the manuscript has been entered into a major contest, so please wish me luck.

Yours in Poetry and Fiction too,

CJ Laity

The Next Mayor of Chicago Will Be . . .

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Dear Chicagoans,

Da Mayor Daley announced that he does not plan to seek another term, which means on February 22, 2011, Chicago will hold its first open Mayoral election since 1947. That's right. The seat is up for grabs and I intend to grab it as an independent candidate. I'm sure Jesse and Rahm or whoever will make worthy adversaries, but let's face it, they are politicians and there is enough dirt stuck to them to feed my front porch garden for another year, so it's time for a poet to take charge of this Windy City and I am one hundred percent serious.

I will file for the mayoral race between November 15 and 22, but in order to run, first I will need 12,500 signatures from registered voters who live in Chicago. Shit. We live in the age of the internet, so, no problem! Please click the "like" button at Facebook.com/TheNextMayorOfChicago and I will let you know how you can help get signatures when the time is right. Or email me. Don't worry 'bout it. We'll get it done.

MY CHICAGO POETRY PARTY PLATFORM.
My Chicago Poetry Party Platform is simple. Make Chicago a fun place to live in and people will be happier. There will be less crime. Doesn't it seem like you are being punished sometimes for living in Chicago? Your taxes are high. You can't hang out without some undercover goon giving you the evil eye. Everything costs too much. There are cameras everywhere snapping your picture. You can't do anything without first getting a permit. What the hell? Why doesn't the city just let us have some real fun once in a while? Well, as the new Mayor of Chicago I am going to put an end to all of that crap.

Here are seven promises that I will KEEP. If Rahm, or Jesse, or whoever is masochistic enough to go against me, can't make real promises like this, then DON'T vote for them. As Chicago's new Mayor:

--I will give that billion dollars back to the firm that quadrupled the cost of our parking meters and then I will allow all city residents to park for FREE. I'm not fooling around. You've earned it, Chicagoans.

--I will give the boot the boot. No longer will you be caught with a boot on your car when you are trying to get your mother to the hospital. That's just evil. There are less asshole-ish ways to get people to pay their parking tickets.

--I will push to allow bars to be granted a "smoking" permit so that smokers don't have to freeze their asses off in the winter, and so that pedestrians don't have to smell that awful stench each time they walk pass a tavern. If people want to go to a smoking bar why don't we let them?

--I am going to launch Operation Save Englewood, during which Chicago will make improvements to that neighborhood, paid for by a new tax on new construction condominiums. If the yuppies tear down this city's architecture in order to build cinder block boxes, then the yuppies are going to have to give Mrs. Jones some new siding for her house! And that's all there is to it!

--I will demand that the CTA bring back the "transfer." Right now if you want a bus transfer you have to get a Chicago Plus card that involves a credit card or bank account, and that is discriminatory to the poor. Everyone should have the same public transpiration rights in Chicago. Stop punishing the poor for being poor.

--Furthermore, I am going to lower the sales and property taxes. Your taxes are outrageous, Chicagoans. You need some relief and I will deliver it.

--And I am going to make Chicago more fun and less anal by keeping the parks and beaches open longer. And I'm going to make sure the prices at festivals such as Taste of Chicago are reduced for city residents, because who can afford to pay six dollars for a hot dog or eight dollars for a little cup of Budweiser? And I am going to hold MORE of these festivals. There will be festivals ALL YEAR LONG under my leadership, because when I call it the Chicago Poetry Party, I DO mean PARTY.

Don't worry. I have a wonderful plan on how to pay for all of this, a plan that I will reveal when the time is right. I will expound on my platform as my campaign develops.

So get ready to vote for CJ Laity for Mayor of Chicago. I am going to run this city like a city, not like an internment camp.

Your next Mayor,

CJ Laity

PS, please help spread the word!!

Poetry at Brookfield Zoo

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On Friday, July 30, from 6:30 to 9 PM, Chicago poets will go where no poet has gone before: to the new underground polar bear pool viewing room at the Brookfield Zoo. In celebration of the opening of the new Language of Conservation exhibit that will display poetry throughout the zoo's new seven acre Great Bear Wilderness, you are invited to a grand tour, followed by an evening of tapas, wine and poetry featuring CJ Laity, Bonnie T. Summers, Charlie Rossiter and Marilyn Peretti. This promises to be a once in a lifetime poetry event! Tickets are on sale now for only $80 but they are limited, so click here to register or call (708) 688-8355.

ABOUT THE POETS:

Marilyn Peretti has written two books of poetry about cranes, of which many species are endangered. Her poems have been published in Seeding the Snow, Christian Science Monitor, Black Bear Review, Prairie Light Review, California Quarterly, and Poetry Cram Magazine. ChicagoPoetry.com named Marilyn Peretti's book Let Wings Take You, one of the Seven Wonders of the Poetry World. For more information about Marilyn Peretti, see pagesbyperetti.com.

NEA Fellowship recipient Charlie Rossiter hosts the audio website poetrypoetry.com. He is the author of four books of poetry and is also the co-author of the beat poetry retrospective Back Beat. His performance poetry has been featured on National Public Radio and at the Chicago Blues Festival. Rossiter is a recipient of a Red Wheel Barrow Award from Pudding House Publications for his collection What Men Talk About.

Bonnie T. Summers is a member of the International Women’s Writing Guild and the Society of Children’s Book Writers & Illustrators. Her poetry has appeared in Woman Made Gallery's Her Mark Calendar, Moon Journal Magazine, After Hours Magazine and Peninsula Pulse. She has been a recipient of the Guild Complex Prose Series Award. Among other things, she writes about grizzly bears, giraffe's, serpents and seals.

CJ Laity is the publisher of ChicagoPoetry.com and has been active as a poetry advocate in the city of Chicago for over two decades, organizing, hosting and participating in poetry events for the Chicago Tribune Printers Row Book Fair, the Poetry Foundation's Printers' Ball, the Chicago Public Library's Annual Poetry Fest, the AWP Conference, the Society of Professional Journalists' Conference, and for many other events over the years.

The Gurlesque Anthology: A Review by CJ Laity

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WARNING: Due to the nature of the book being reviewed,
this article contains explicit language not intended for children
or for those who are easily offended.

For a slightly edited version of this review, CLICK HERE

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GURLESQUE
the new grrly, grotesque, burlesque poetics
Saturnalia Books
Reviewed by CJ Laity

Citing a poetic tendency that cropped up through publications such as Fence, Chain, and Tinfish, the editors, Arielle Greenberg (who coined the term in 2001) and Lara Glenum, says the Gurlesque anti-movement inspires radical change by "incorporating the grotesque and cruel with the spangled and dreamy." If there were a mission to the Gurlesque anthology, it would be to begin a conversation that uses the "collision or collusion of fantasy and ethics" to ultimately expose America as a "rape culture," and by doing so, to take back language, girlhood, and women's lives. But a mission would suggest a camp, clique or club, and the editors insist that this tendency has not become that.

So far I've read some critique, debate and discussion, but women, who seem to think that the book's biggest flaw is that it doesn't include more lesbian poetry, have so far been the dominant voices on the matter. My notion is that the book's intention is to challenge the stereotypes created by men, so the book is intended to be read and talked about by men.

This is a review for men, written by a man. Since I plan to cite many quotes here, naming every poet and poem referenced would be quite tedious; so in most cases I will merely include the number of the page that the quote is found on.

This collection of 18 "third wave feminist" poets is a spin-off of the hardcore poetry and performances of the late 80s, when Karen Finley invoked the wrath of Jesse Helms by smearing chocolate syrup all over her breasts, and Wendy O. Williams sang about getting "butt fucked" while chopping her guitar in half with a chainsaw, and Chicago poet Lorri Jackson wrote lines like "she did what her boyfriend wanted / and he finally left her for good / she cried rape for a few days / after giggling the knife up where it hurts"—and with those lines she opened for bands like Ministry and the Revolting Cocks. The militant Sister Serpents of the early nineties eventually found more power in sarcasm than in seriousness, and the next generation was transformed into Riot Grrls. It is from that platform this anthology admits it was launched.

With poem titles such as "This Is A Fucking Poem" and "A Thousand Virgins Shout Fuck Off" and "Sunday Morning Cunt Poem" Saturnalia Books' new anthology Gurlesque (the new grrly, grotesque, burlesque poetics) certainly doesn't shy away from what it is: a pure act of anarchy. Indeed, the first stanza of the book includes the sentence "First he spit on my asshole and then start in with a middle finger and then the cock slid in no sound come out, only a maw gaping, grind hard into ground."

Let's not dick around about it. The Gurlesque anthology is a violation of just about everything that is sacred: "A holiday shit stain" (pg. 32) so to speak. It is especially a violation of poetry itself. It's as if the authors are literally fucking poetry by shoving their bold, capital letters into their poems, ripping words out of their poems and leaving blank spaces, trapping words in boxes like coffins, raping the poetry with deliberate grammatical errors, jamming gibberish into their stanzas—"punkbunnypopsicle" (pg. 239)—and littering their verse with footnotes, random thoughts, perhaps a sudden onomatopoeia and other acts of complete nonsense—"happy disco-colored elephants" (pg. 279)—while taunting anyone who would be offended by it with biting sarcasm: "I even am a girl. Wow, fuck me." (pg. 28) or "How nice it is to be broken!" (pg. 195). The women of Gurlesque say fuck form. Their poetry comes in the form of a book pitch, a screenplay, a diary entry, a resume, a job interview, even a classified ad in which you can purchase a "gift box of human skulls" and pay for it with "kitten or monkey fetuses" (pg. 271).

This anthology is a comprehensive study in bi-polar madness. It contains silly terms like "loosey-goosey" within ten words of curses like "Bullshit" (pg. 258). It is an assault on anyone who still believes in crushes or puppy love: "Oh pooches, need me! Up her ass a maggot smelling of leather and amber and hair" (pg. 31). With lines like that, these poets rebel against everything that is expected of them as females. They have become so sick and tire of being prisoners in their "rape culture" that they have gone quite mad, and have transferred that madness into their poetry.

"Kitty, sweet kitty. Your simply the best.
ANXIETY ATTACK! ANXIETY ATTACK!"

(from "She Sure Likes The Cream" by Nada Gordon)

The design here seems to be to take every preconception, expectation and pet peeve men have regarding women, and to deliver it back to them with such exaggeration that it becomes sickening. Those cute stuffed ponies you won for your girlfriend at the carnival are gathering in a pack behind the movie theatre "amongst the cigarette butts, getting their hooves stuck in wads of gum" (pg. 224). Everything you assume your girl is into, her hula hoops (pg. 91) and jump ropes (pg. 120) and karaoke machines (pg. 92) and bright silver hair barrettes (pg. 196), have been replaced by a "galaxy of worms" (pg. 59) and a "blunt word cock" (pg. 96) and an anus that smells "like an old dollar bill" (pg. 81). Even the photo album is not immune to the Gurlesque poets' word attack:

"For an hour I take pictures of my cunt. Spread cunt, panties pulled askew, prim virginal cunt, cunt with asshole, cunt without asshole. I make a photo album, one cunt on each page."

(from "I Threw Away My Gun And My Harness" by Tina Brown Celona)

The romantic moon is "A kind of ancient date-rape drug" (pg. 65) and not even the purity of a newborn child escapes the vile insurgency of Gurlesque.

"Margaret stares at the baby jars and wonders if one of them were taken out, would her or she be rubbery like a rotten egg" (pg. 45).

"And all these blurbs are for s---. Like if I were to carry around a turd and pretend it is my baby" (pg. 107).

And, men, in case you think you might get aroused by the cute little girl's naughty disobedience, like watching Gogo in Kill Bill in her schoolgirl uniform wielding her deadly weapon, or just in case you think you might find something forbidden and erotic here like peeking into your girlfriend's Victoria Secret catalogue: think again.

"Cotton briefs are like meeting in the rainforest
no longer just for girls being killed gong to school" (pg. 208).

In fact, there isn't a single erotic moment in Gurlesque. The boobs in here had their fathers killed and their fingers cut off (pg. 155) and the nipples look like pig snouts (pg. 177) and are "supplanting napalms" (pg. 197). The models on the Gurlesque catwalk are not only dressed up as Cleopatra and "Cookies and Cream" but also as "Disaster at Sea" and "Slaying of the First Born" (pgs. 268 – 269).

"Miss Wiggles is a sensitive
large quantity of limpid urine"

(from "The Wandering Uterus" by Kim Rosenfield)

In order to insure that you don't get the wrong idea, female body parts are presented as mere objects by the Gurlesque poets:

"Your body is opium and you are its only true smoker" (pg. 55).

"The heart grows like moss and this is all I will ever say about that" (pg. 165).

I don't know about you, but the thought of moss growing has never been one of my major turn-ons. The only turn-on in this 300-page anthology is weirdness, and the authors of the poetry are the only ones being turned on by it.

These women are determined to make every one of your assumptions and demands backfire on you by giving you exactly what you expect and ask for. Do you think you know what is on a woman's mind? The Gurlesque poet will leave her page blank so that you have to fill it in for her. Do you expect her to tell you what is on her mind? She will say it then: "I hate you therefore we will be together forever" (pg. 30). Do you accuse her of speaking in code, not saying what she really means? Be careful: "No, it was I and I blank I bandit blather that louse that fiddle-dee-dee little lame chimera that came as the name yes different" (pg 198). Or perhaps you think she never gets to the point.

"Lip, carnelian bitch-froth. Airless hiss, worn in a scythe. Skin glove
laced tight, a wax doll mildewed sinking limb. Great hole
full of mouth-holes. Eye-holes, cavities and sugar cubes."

(from "Horse" by Danielle Pafunda)

Do you think she's always late? She'll hand you an entire chapter of prose so that you have to wait for the next poet. Do you think of her as your servant? Fine. "I am here to lick your shoes, your hairy shins, your eventual cock" (pg. 101). Do you need her to repeat herself because you weren't listening the first time? Well then, she won't stop repeating: "a come pound me subject me, a come pound me prettily, a come pound me sex instance, a come pound me come sex me sex instance" (pg. 199). Right about now, you probably want her to just shut up already, right? Well, that isn't likely to happen.

"I am going talk about how no one loves me
until the words feel fake in my mouth" (pg. 239).

Guess what, men, the truth is these poets don't give a fuck what you want, because in their collective opinion, for the most part, you are all dolts and animals. Face it. You don't understand women anyway so why should they try to make any sense for you? You don't care what she wants, do you? Do you? What does she want? Perhaps she wants you to put yourself in her shoes.

"Can you imagine dear men
what it is to be a woman being fucked" (pg. 79).

"The guy fucks you five eight minutes
you think you are supposed to come
you do not. What's wrong with you?
frididaire girl" (pg. 79).

"nigh am so sick of doubting
myself an thinking I am bad" (pg. 77).

Perhaps she wants you to look at your own bi-polar behavior.

"One day
it's all pinky promises, rhinestone tiaras &
eating hot French fries at midnight.
Tender mooing & then,
something is tearing a hole into the air" (pg. 252).

Perhaps she wants you to look at your own sexism.

"Hey saekshi, the American GIs cried to the Korean
barmaids, pronouncing saekshi 'sexy'

though saekshi meant respectable woman" (pg. 98).

Perhaps she wants you to look at your own neediness.

"We barely knew each other yet he confessed to me until his face clattered off like a hubcap" (pg 102).

Or perhaps she doesn't want anything from you at all. Perhaps it's not about you. Perhaps that's the point. Maybe she simply wants to be the scatological one for a change.

"I look at the cat.
One of us has farted" (pg. 279).

But when reading this book, one thing is for sure: she doesn't want to be medicated. She wants to be empowered. And she is not waiting for your goddamn permission or approval. She doesn't need you to tell her who she is or what she stands for. She is taking the power, whether you like it or not.

"I just want to piss down my own leg" (pg 107).

But, hey, what do I know? I'm just a man.

*****
How can we describe a Gurlesque poet?

"She's an animal mujahedeen
a one-eyed voodoo goddess
With a clashing color scheme"

(from "She Sure Likes The Cream [song version]" by Nada Gordon)

The vicious, lawless, obscene poetry in Gurlesque is disturbing and complicated, nightmarish and mesmerizing, silly and unsettling. The many layers of a Gurlesque poem need to be gently peeled away like pretty petticoats in order to reveal the "violence of cute" beneath.

--CJ Laity

Gurlesque can be purchased by clicking here.

October 26: Weeds Off The Wall Open Mic Poetry Contest #4

Subject: ALERT!! ALERTA!! ALERT!! ALERTA!!!
its a weeds thing...

poetry contest #4

possible definitions to "of the wall" ;

1) not main stream
2) totally unusual
3) something you'd rather not do in other venues
4) something you'd say "holy shit" i can't believe he/she said that"
5) in other words something that is not safe...
6) bizarre

what: "Best Off The Wall Poem" poetry contest
when: Monday October 26th
time: 9p sign up/ 10pm first contestant
where: WEEDS
1555 n. dayton
why: $50.00 prize money
host: gregorio gomez
barkeep: sergio mayora

so come on by sit right down and sign up between 9 and 10pm...first poet will be on the mike by 10pm; come hell or high water...last poet by 10:45...(which means there's a limited number of slots) and the judges will retire and unanomisly choose a winning poem...

open mike will continue soon after the last poet contestant reads...
when the judges makes their determination of a winner...i will announce it and present the "prize money"...
looking forward to seeing you at weeds.